The Adventures of John and His Companion
by Irena-Lyre
Summary: A gay fairytale.
1. The curious Case of Sir Weirdo Holmes

Once upon a time in the Palace of Criterion, King John ruled over the happy land of Bartholomew. He was loved by his people and was called Good King John, for he was good indeed. Having fought in battles against neighbouring Kingdom of Buckingham in his Crown Prince years, King John was well aware of the pain and sorrows of conflicts from the past, and treated his people in the most gentle manner. Now, with a benign Queen of Buckingham whose interest was mainly in the exchange of handicrafts instead of cannon shots, both kingdoms had known peace for twenty years.

But one day, the peace of Bartholomew was stirred by a series of mysterious deaths. Lord Stamford, who was usually in charge of Everything, felt out of his depth, and had to go to King John.

"Another dead body has been discovered, your Majesty, the fourth in one week. A housemaid this time, in a garden."

The skin around his eyes was saggy – not much rest last night then, thought King John. Not a good sign. "So I've heard. Pray sit down, Mike. More the reason to believe these are not mere accidents."

"Indeed, your Majesty. There are some wild rumours circulating – concerning witchcraft, 'soul-sucking', or whatnot. Judging by the lack of discernible signs of struggle and …"

"Mike," there was a certain softness in King John's tone, but his expression was stern."It's highly unlikely of your character to give in to such baloney."

"No, I do not believe in anything of the sort, your Majesty. But the mind of the commons is more imaginative and readily twisted. There certainly is something eerie about those _peaceful_ corpses, as if someone, or _something_, led them there and they just willingly died. On the up side for the clergyman, the sales of charms against black magic have tripled in the last two days."Lord Stamford added with a shrug.

"Oh bother."King John sighed, heavily. "How are your men? Any progress?"

"Well, we are working on it, but without even a cause of death to start with, we are – at a loss, to be frank."An apologetic smile flashed in Lord Stamford's plump face. "Yet the annual trade fair of the Strand approaches. In fact, the very purpose of my presence here today, your Majesty, is to suggest the enlistment of some outside help, if I may. Does the name of Sir Holmes strike you?"

"Sir Holmes the Chancellor of Buckingham?" King John raised an eyebrow. "He surely is a brilliant man, but I doubt…"

"I do apologize, your Majesty, for not making myself clear. Sir Holmes the junior it is."

"Oh, you mean Sir 'Weirdo' Holmes."

Lord Stamford looked positively surprised and almost choked out a laugh. "Your knowledge of folklore amazes me, your Majesty."

"Molly does tell me about the gossip in town sometimes, as can be quite entertaining to say the least." King John felt rather smug.

According to Molly, this Sir "Weirdo" Holmes earned his name through his passion for unnatural deaths and an unnerving ability to "read people". His work might seem to resemble that of an alchemist or botanist, but it was clear that his interest was in neither gold or flowers. He sometimes wandered into Bartholomew territory in search for unusual plants, animals or rocks not found in Buckingham, and was known to have helped people solve their impossible mysteries. Most were stunned by his infallible genius, while some accused him as evil and mean. More believed him to be a wizard.

"Although I do not really understand the work of this younger Sir Holmes, invite him to Bartholomew if you so insist, and see what he can do. At least there is no harm in that."

"Once again, my apologies, your Majesty. "Lord Stamford appeared slightly embarrassed."He's already here."

Before King John could respond, a tall, slim figure had strode into the court swiftly, and stepped up right in front of the throne. "Greetings, your Majesty! The cause of your recent loss of civilian lives is almost undoubtfully poison, of the most subtle and effective type. To determine what substance exactly, I hereby request the access to your royal library, and to the crime scenes, in order to narrow down my formulations regarding to the culprit behind these murders, which your men have failed to realize as such. And there are more to come, unless I am permitted to act quickly enough." The tone of his string of words was casual and flat, but his eyes were full of glee.

King John just stared.

Sir "Weirdo" Holmes certainly did not look like a wizard. Speaking of looks, he was not conventionally good-looking either. Although impeccably dressed, his excessively lean statue bespoke a diet poorer than that of a peasant. The cobalt blue cloak made his youthful complexion – anatomically ridiculous cheekbones - overly pale, which probably resulted from a highly irregular sleep pattern. Nevertheless, there was something striking about his keen eyes and agile long limbs. His words were very far from comforting; however, King John found strange relief in such blunt straight-forwardness.

Lord Stamford uncomfortably nudged the outspoken guest, with his eyes.

"Oh, right. Sherlock Holmes, at Your Majesty's service."Said the youth lazily with a slight bow, clearly not meaning it. "And for apothecary references, I should like access to the Royal Academy's archives as well, but I trust that the royal library itself should suffice, with an enthusiastic and experienced medical man for a master."

While maintaining his stately demeanour, King John swallowed. How on earth did he know that? Even Lord Stamford didn't know about this part of King John's life. Maybe this "Weirdo" Holmes was a wizard indeed.

Or were the Buckingham forces keeping a better tab on him than he was aware of?

Lord Stamford didn't seem to have noticed anything. "You said you need to 'narrow down'. So you have theories already?"

"Six so far. But worthless theories all of them will remain, without adequate data. Which is why I would like to look at the crime scenes as soon as possible, despite your men having trampled all over them, possibly." Sherlock Holmes ignored the mild annoyance on Lord Stamford's face, and was looking expectantly at King John.

"All requests granted. Captain Lestrade will be your escort. Report to me in the evening for any findings." King John commanded.

"That is not my division, your Majesty." Captain Lestrade stepped up from behind the throne and protested. "My duty is your personal safety and not -"

"It's all right, Greg." King John said, gently. "Sir Holmes is going on a murder investigation upon my request in our kingdom, and his personal safety is in no way any slighter than my own. Do not hesitate to mobilise your forces when necessary. It's an honour to have you here, Sir Holmes."

"Sherlock, please. Can I call you John, if we are expected to be talking a lot?'Your Majesty' is four syllables. Too long."

Captain Lestrade gritted his teeth. King John did not hide the look of shock this time, but he might as well be laughing. Sherlock Holmes had been the first to dare to suggest such a thing, and for such a reason. To a King who handled plenty of weird things daily, that was quite an achievement.

"That's rude, Sherlock." His Lordship broke in, with a paternal sternness.

"Oh." Sherlock blinked.

"Actually it sounds like very good reasoning to me, Mike," King John commented with an amused smile. "Since he is not my subject, it doesn't matter."

A ghost of a grin crept upon Sherlock's face momentarily, though both Bartholomew rulers had missed it.

"That's very kind indeed, your Majesty." Lord Stamford bowed.

"Very well, I shall proceed then." Sherlock announced as he turned around, visibly bored by the formality. "Laterz!" And off he went, apparently reciting a list of books and scrolls he needed to an already irritated Captain Lestrade.

"Please do excuse his manners, your Majesty. Despite having come from a most distinguished and prestigious family of Buckingham, he is not the typical aristocrat who…"

"Don't worry, Mike. His manners are… fine." King John caught himself saying. Part of him had already started to regret his "no harm" comment earlier, but another part of him was oddly excited to see how this Sherlock Holmes, of a most curious character, would proceed.


	2. The Memoirs of King John

Evening came, and Sherlock was summoned as promised. Or rather, King John was summoned, however odd that sounds. As crowds were dispersing from the banquet hall and King John was still faring some guests well, a familiar slender figure came up from nowhere.

"John! The crime scenes confirmed some of my ideas…"

"Please do excuse us, Lady Dimmock and General Dimmock, matters of great importance are at hand." King John awkwardly turned away from utterly shocked faces, and pushed Sherlock into an inner room.

Completely oblivious to the King's embarrassment, Sherlock went on. "The lack of struggle indicates well-monitored poisoning made to look like suicides, but the bodies were a bit more telling about how the murderer might have chosen his victims. It's a shame how Lord Stamford's incompetent handyman had moved the bodies and messed up a lot, but some information might still be salvaged. Would you go with me to look at the bodies, John? I have come up with a list of possibly responsible drugs already. I believe you take an interest in dead people too. Well, perhaps more of an interest in stopping them from dying, but still… "

"Right, that's good… Hang on. Just… How. Did. You. know I practiced medicine?" The King's eyes flared, as he suddenly remembered this very vital question.

The basics of medical science had been a part of his general education as Crown Prince, but the subject was never encouraged by his father. From the Old King's point of view, the only things that matter for a kingdom are a mighty army, and the money to run it, from the pursuit of which a great King should never stray. So His Highness turned underground to the late court physician Anders, who had an evangelical passion for passing on his medical knowledge, but also had a less-than-committed son. Later in the dire moments of war, Prince John was able to put his learning into practice, and saw how a healing hand was a much more direct relief than the promise of victory and the delusion of conquest. When the Crown Prince had become King there was no longer need for secrecy, but he hardly ever practised again, and with the passing of Doctor Anders, few to none were aware that their King had also been a Healer. But now, a stranger from Buckingham brought it up, and that was enough reason for alarm.

"What? Oh, I didn't know, I noticed. It's all in the way you look at people – it's always as if you are evaluating their physical state, are you not? I know you did when you first looked at _me_. Also, the court physician has a seat unusually close to yourself, but you do not appear to show any special regard towards him. So, unless you suffer a chronic disease that requires a doctor's constant help, which I deem not, the affection is to the occupation and not to the person, possibly a habit from old." King John shifted a little at hearing this, causing a sly curve of lips from Sherlock as he continued, "Moreover, the conclusive evidence lies in your garden – it's filled by the useless kinds of flora as of present, but the state of those plants tells me that the soil used to nurture ginseng and eucalyptus, unlikely a privilege of the said physician. Isn't it quite obvious?"

"Amazing," King John uttered.

"Thank you, I know. Apparently the therapeutic species have been banished from your garden but not from your decorative preference, which is why they show up at places where most kingly palaces would have lions or eagles."

And Sherlock watched with satisfaction as a mildly embarrassed King John glanced around at the patterns of calendula and primrose on his carpet, on his walls, and on the vest he's wearing. Oh bother. Who picked those designs? Surely not himself.

"Please don't be alarmed, I usually deduce more than that from a piece of personal possession, and now I've seen your _house_. Your garden also reveals that the turnover, hence your withdrawal from practice, occurred – hmm, three years ago, probably. Likely to do with the late Queen Mary's terminal illness from which you have failed to save her. That's it, perfect timeline, there."

In a moment King John's expression changed from awe-struck to grief-struck, aghast at Sherlock's total indifference. He did not say anything for a long while, and then he spoke, slowly. "Sherlock, you are a very gifted young person, and it appears you might have a way of knowing everything. But just because you know it, doesn't mean you have to flaunt it to prove you're clever. There's a difference between knowledge and wisdom, so they say." He quietly chuckled to himself. "Sorry. Why am I saying this? I must be getting old. Did you miss the banquet? Oh, you must have. I'll have the cook bring some food to your chamber. I hope Bartholomewean cuisine is acceptable to you. Good night, Sherlock." He turned around, and felt his own footsteps weary and heavy. He felt very old.

Sherlock found himself caught in a very rare instance where he didn't know what to say. Luckily there's the subject of food. "Umm… no need for the trouble, I don't eat on a case anyway. Good night," he muttered as the King trekked away, "John."

King John certainly was not the first to tell him those things, and many had used harsher words. But for the first time, Sherlock took a moment to think about them before sinking into sleep, plate of Bartholomewean delicacy untouched.

King John couldn't sleep. His king-sized bed (sic!) seemed extra-empty that night, and even the best wine didn't help. He threw an arm across the extra pillow, thought of Mary, and let out a deep sigh.

Lady Mary, of the House of Mortsan, had come to Criterion not long after Prince John came back from the battlefield. Their union was partly political, admittedly, as all affairs involving royalties are, but she was still everything a King would ever dream of. Many a year they spent together – and those were happy years for Good King John and his Good Queen Mary. And they did not raise children. They weren't rushed – hell, John always thought he'd have an eternity with her.

Eternity turned out to mean fifteen years. In an unusually cold winter Queen Mary fell suddenly ill, and was wearing away rather quickly. At that time Doctor Anders had passed away, and his son, Anderson, was mediocre at best. In those endless nights of silent prayers, King John had wondered. What if Doctor Anders were still around, or what if he himself had been a proper, better doctor? The thoughts nearly drove him mad. By the time spring came around, the grave of Queen Mary was covered with nameless tiny white flowers that she used to adore.

"What's the name of these darlings?" she would say, "We don't have them down south." And they remained forever nameless.

After the funeral, King John put away all his medical collections into the royal library and never looked at them again, as he did with a lot of other things. Since then King John had met fine ladies, of various statuses from three continents, but not one of them seemed more than a walking shadow to him. Other than those tiny flowers that relentlessly come back every year, the only reminiscence of Life with Mary was Molly, her chambermaid who had come to Criterion with her Lady. John was very fond of her and liked to think of her as a little sister – much more like a sister than his own sister, anyway.

In this sleepless night, King John asked Molly to stay a little after making his bed.

"I met Sherlock this morning. I mean, that Sir 'Weirdo' Holmes you told me about. His name is Sherlock."

"Really? I saw him in the courtyard but didn't get around to talk to him. Is he very weird indeed?" She giggled a bit, making John's heart melt.

"Talk to him? Oh, you wouldn't want to. He's awfully smart, no doubt, but a massive twat, really. "

Molly sounded indignant. "A massive twat? I think he looks quite fit."

Though the night was dark and the room barely lit, John could feel Molly blush as she said that. "Being a twat has nothing to do with how good one looks, Molly. Or how smart one is, for that matter. It's all about the heart. Your heart makes you who you are."

"I've heard people say he doesn't have a heart."

"Well, that explains it." John murmured, and drifted into something like sleep. Molly looked down upon him with soft eyes, and quietly left the room.

In his sleep he thought of Mary, and the kids they never had. He thought of Doctor Anders and the earthy smell of brewing herbs. He thought of the battlefield, of blood, of shouts, of clatters of arms, of a Buckinghamian arrow in his own flesh, of fellow soldiers in agony, and he gave them a large dose of sedative when nothing else could be done.

It wasn't a good night.


	3. A Study in Drinks

King John was roused when the sky was barely grey. He expected to find Lord Stamford or Sherlock with some sudden breakthrough. Instead, it was Captain Lestrade.

"Sorry to alert you this early, your Majesty. At midnight Sir Holmes instructed me to wait for his return, but I had seen nothing of him since."

King John turned pale. "What? How?"

"Sir Holmes had pretended to be drunk and followed a suspicious figure out of a pub, Angelo's, in town. I meant to follow, but he did not want the interference." Captain Lestrade sounded upset, either from the worry or from the rejection, or both.

"Fetch the Royal Guards, and show me where he's last seen." King John tossed back commands as he swung on a cloak and rushed for the stable.

"Your Majesty, Princess Sarah's envoy is due to arrive this morning." Captain Lestrade called up from behind.

"Well, she can wait." And Gladstone the royal stallion galloped onward to Angelo's.

The arrogant git is the Buckinghamian Chancellor's brother after all, King John told himself, and it would be ill indeed if some misfortune befalls him while on visit to the court of Criterion. He arrived outside of Angelo's soon enough, Captain Lestrade and his unit having fallen behind. The few workmen and housemaids who were up and about gasped at the splendour of their King in the pale morning light. All the more to gossip about if this murder mystery doesn't get solved soon enough. But where to next? He doubted whether Captain Lestrade could help with that.

Now King John had only his soldier's instinct to follow. Down the alley first, since there was no other way. Then the road forked. King John took the turn to the shadier part of town. It was a gut decision, mostly.

Think, John, think. He breathed in hard. Like a proper warrior, one with valour, but also with a plan. If a horse, or two horses, had passed through this part of town at that hour, the watchman would have noticed. And on foot, how far could they have gone given the time they had?

King John carefully inspected the haphazard rows of ghetto housings, attracting a few unfriendly looks from shaggy children. Gee, he didn't know things were this bad not far away from his palace. This used to be a posh area when he was young, but never got restored after the cannon bombs more than twenty years ago, and had since then been taken over by peasants, apparently.

And there as he spotted what he was seeking, his stomach dropped. In the corner of what was formerly a great mansion, he could make out the silhouette of two seated figures. One slim, tall, and sitting upright; the other crooked, sinister, and leaning abhorrently close to the former.

King John held his breath and watched with much anxiety. What exactly is going on? There were two glistering chalices on the table between them, and Sherlock just lifted one. Oh no, he's going to –

"Sherlock!"

The bow string sang. King John's hand was steady as he watched the crooked figure fell forward with a shriek, an arrow in his back, and Sherlock dropped the chalice in shock. But then he also saw the flashing of a dagger as the dying man made a frantic assault. Sherlock gasped a little and clutched at his left forearm before swiftly kicking the dagger away.

King John's first instinct was to rush in to help. But he heard the thudding of hoofs from behind. Ah well, Greg can handle the rest, and this neighbourhood doesn't need more fuss. Better not keep Princess Sarah waiting for too long. He mounted Gladstone and turned back.

Ignoring Captain Lestrade's string of questions and plea for him to remain still and wait for the medical man, Sherlock trotted about around the dead body on the floor, constantly casting remarks on how the Royal Guards were not handling the evidences properly. The murderer was dead, and the conveniently-timed marksman was gone.

But the royal emblem on the arrow's end was unmistakable.

After a whole day's banqueting, merrymaking, and other tiresome activities, King John retired to his chamber, only to find an impatient Sherlock, and a flustered Molly.

"I'm so sorry, my Lord, he just barged in." It looked like she couldn't have made an effort to stop him, anyway.

"No, I didn't barge, I sweet-talked. Besides, John, I would have headed straight to the dining hall were I not avoiding direct confrontation with Princess Sarah. She did not take it well when I deduced the occupation of her secret lover last time back in Buckingham."

"Don't worry, Molly. It's been a long day, please go and get some rest." Strange enough, King John's heart felt lightened up by Sherlock's total disregard for pomp and properness, and Molly's discharge was gratefully accepted. "I'm sorry to hear about the unfortunate incident, Sherlock. Are you injured?" He eyed the bandage on Sherlock's arm, and turned to his nightstand to produce a small round clay box."Here. The ointment will stop the bleeding and sooth the pain." As opposed to the standard remedy that burnt, this making required careful handling of ingredients, and was too complicated for Anderson.

Sherlock looked taken aback. "It was just a scratch. But…thank you. Nice shot, by the way."

King John blinked. Supposedly he could get out of this, trouble-free, but it'd be better not to complicate matters. "Yes, it must have been, I've heard. Now tell me about the murderer. How did you catch him?"

"I did not catch him, he came to me. From the previous victims I've deduced how they were chosen – disgruntled persons who sought debauchery in pubs and announced their unwillingness to live on. So I acted like one and was offered a game."

"A game?"

"Yes, at knife point though. Of choosing between Life and the Eternal Escape from Suffering. His poison is truly remarkable – completely odourless, and apparently painless too. Wouldn't hurt much to take one."

"So you were really going to take it? What's the point, risking your life to prove you're clever?"

"I deem my choice to be - "

"You are an idiot." John said reproachfully, but there was a certain softness in his eyes.

Sherlock had been accused of many things before, but idiocy was not among them. And it made him grin a little. "Would you go with me to examine the victims' bodies, John? The murderer is dead, but we do have a myth about witchcraft to dispel."

Looking at dead bodies had never sounded so appealing. "All right. But you've got to have dinner before going to the dead bodies, lest you should become one."

"Yes, I'm hungry. Bartholomewean?"


	4. The Adventure of the Crown Jewel

To Molly's chagrin, despite having apparently liked Bartholomewean cuisine, Sherlock announced his immediate takeoff at the conclusion of the case. "A series of experiments at home craves my attention. " he claimed.

King John did not offer to see him off. Sherlock wouldn't care about such convention anyway. Besides, King John was more worried about the prominent Buckinghamian jewellery merchant, who along with his family was reported by his bodyguards to have vanished from the trade fair. Secretly he had wished that Sherlock would stay to help; then he reproached himself for relying too much on the external aid. The happenings in the Strand were his responsibility, after all; better not get that git into another accident.

"Your Majesty, Sir Holmes is here." Lord Stamford came in, his voice uncertain.

"Oh, I thought Sherlock had left early this morning. Never mind, bring him in."

"Apologies, your Majesty. It's Sir Holmes the Chancellor this time."

Oh bother. Mycroft's middle name is Trouble. "Bring him in, anyway."

"Greetings, your Majesty." Sir Holmes the senior bowed humbly, but there was nothing humble in his voice. "I regret my unpronounced arrival, but the hour is pressing."

The pounds he'd recently put on would not do his hip any good, thought King John. Now that he had met both brothers, he made a quiet assessment. Sherlock was annoying, but kind of adorable in his own strange way; while Mycroft was so perfectly sensible and normal, resulting in pure annoyance.

"Greetings, Chancellor Holmes. As much as I regret the incident – I am aware that Mr. Powers is a long-term acquaintance with the Buckinghamian Royal House, it is not anticipated that his disappearance would cause such alarm as to invoke your esteemed presence here in Criterion."

"Disappearance would not, but a death threat would. The Powers are kidnapped, and the ransom has been named. " King John blinked. "The lack of information on your part is hardly surprising, as the message was made out to the Buckinghamian Crown. The kidnappers claim to be vengeful ex-military Bartholomeweans, demanding the Crown Jewel of Buckingham. At the denial of which they would carry out executions of the most brutal manner."

Mycroft took some satisfaction at King John's look of utter disbelief. "To your interest, I am reluctant to acknowledge such self-identification of these villains. I am equally averse to a Buckinghamian rescue mission into Bartholomewean territory, as some member of the Queen's Cabinet proposes. "

"That would be out of the question. " Said King John sternly.

"I do not disagree. But clearly the circumstances deserve the careful attention of both nations. For which purpose I should like to introduce some unofficial assistance, in the form of my brother, whom I believe you have met -"

"You have no command over me." Said a very disgruntled Sherlock who popped up from just outside.

"I took the less travelled path because I know that you know that I'm coming. Therefore I won. Besides, your acid-drenched maggots are not demonstrating a significantly different behaviour from the control group. Might consider changing your formula next time, as I told you."

Sherlock was not amused by the trivial bickering that lightened up King John's mood in this grave situation. "I have no desire to get caught up in your political razzle-dazzle. See you back home, Mycroft. Or not."

King John felt suddenly enraged. "It's not just politics, Sherlock. There are people involved – actual human lives!"

Sherlock considered for a moment. "Oh." Then he turned to Mycroft. "Let me see the message. And I would like to interview the bodyguards."

After a few swift arrangements they rode their way out of the Strand, Mycroft having departed. Sherlock was given the grey-maned Toby, a worthy match of Gladstone in both speed and form. Mounted on Gladstone, King John secretly enjoyed being closer to Sherlock's eye level than usual. Why does he have to be so bloody tall? Sherlock was blabbing on about his deductions from the sheet of the message, but King John was hardly listening. The midmorning sun shined on Sherlock's long lashes, and he looked kind of beautiful. King John caught himself staring and quickly redirected his thoughts back to the grim case at hand.

According to Sherlock, something about the paper and the writing and the time interval put the kidnappers – a group of three or four – in a mountainous region between the Strand and the Buckinghamian border. But they could not risk an ambush of the Royal Guards before ensuring the safety of the hostages.

"It worries me to see you put yourself forward in such dangers, my Lord." Captain Lestrade had expressed his concern.

King John laughed. "Don't you forget, Greg, that I was a soldier."

But his heart was heavy. Sherlock had pointed out something fishy about the matter. Mr. Powers' bodyguards had been lying. They almost certainly betrayed the Powers into the hands of the kidnappers. But for what? Even Sherlock had not figured out. Not enough data.

As they left the city behind, heading west along the river, the soldier's heart soared with delight. The vast greenness of meadows stretched out before them, covering former battle grounds with flowering grass dancing in the breeze, while the river shimmered. King John drew in a deep breath of the familiar wilderness. _The fight is on_.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

King John was slightly amused by the unexpected comment. "I thought you didn't care about these things."

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."

Soon enough, as the landscape changed from verdant to desolate, new data emerged. Not long after they started climbing the forsaken terrain, beside the jagged path lay Mr. Powers, lifeless.

For a moment Sherlock looked disturbed, if more out of surprise than empathy. Then he immediately started examining the body. "Brutally executed indeed, but not efficiently."

"Not the doing of any ex-military man, regarding to either honour or skill." King John emphasised.

"This happened before their stated deadline or a denial of their request. They are not really after the Crown Jewel. But if the goal is murder all along, why the trouble? A dead body in the Strand would be so much more sensational." Sherlock's brows furrowed.

"Follow the trail, and our murders can answer these questions." King John's crop pointed to the scattered horse hoofs leading from the body.

"Three horses. Likely three villains, then."

"Judging by the time of death, they cannot be very far. Be very careful from now on. Take the path above theirs."

They set free Gladstone and Toby, trusting them to head back to Criterion, and climbed on. The trail led them deep into the mountains, while Sherlock kept watch by peeping down from behind the boulders. _So being tall does have some use_, King John mused. Soon enough, below them from a distance, there were three horses tied to two tents, with a crude-looking man standing outside.

"Sherlock, what do your hawk eyes see?"

"They're not taking the hostages anywhere. John, we may have no other means than a direct confrontation."

_Now's the time for some tactics, soldier._ "For that one man it's a clean shot from up here, but it's the unseen ones that we should worry about. Our advantage is in stealth and surprise, not in strength. Drop your arms." said King John, stripping down his own chain mail.

Upon perceiving the pair, the crude man clutched his hand around his sword. "Halt! Who's that?" he called out, with a heavy northern Bartholomewean accent.

King John put on his most harmless smile. "Hallo there! I am a doctor, and this is my apprentice." He glanced over to Sherlock and withheld a laugh as Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. "Pray, good sir, would you spare an old man a drink of water, if you have any? You see, we are collecting some herbs that would sooth my back pain, and have wandered a little too far."

"Go away," the man waved his sword dismissively, "look for your sodding herbs elsewhere."

The exchange brought another man, shorter, but better-built, out of a tent. "A doctor, eh? Might be helpful here. The boy's fever's getting bad. Boss needs him alive." He looked at King John and Sherlock up and down. "Give the old man some water and let him check out the boy. Search for arms first. The young lad can stay outside."

"But I should observe my master and learn of his art," Sherlock proclaimed most earnestly.

They were both patted down from head to toe, during which King John maintained a puzzled expression and Sherlock mumbled complains, and were led into the second tent, where a towering dark man overlooked a distraught woman and a shivering child of no more than six years of age. "Keep an eye on 'em, chap, I'd be outside." The shorter man stepped out, leaving the tall man and the crude man keening watching over the refugees and their unexpected helpers.

King John took the boy in his arms and contemplated. "Say, what do you make of his _tonsilla tubaria_?"

"It can be a sign of _Bronchopneumonia_, Master."

"In which case, do you suggest the use of _viburnum lentago_?"

"Nay, Master, it does not apply well to minors, and the prolonged condition may trigger _lobar pneumonia_."

The deliberately Latin-studded exchange clearly sounded gibberish to the guards, as they soon became visibly absent-minded. At which point Sherlock suggested, "Master, it's high time for some _Vatican cameos_."

In the blink of an eye King John had drawn a dagger from his boot, and knocked down the crude man, who thought he just heard another medical term. It was a wonder to see Sherlock as a dexterous fighter, even unarmed, as he protected Mrs. Powers and her son from the vicious towering man. The noise brought the shorter man hurrying into the tent, sword drawn. In the thick of the struggle, the tall man suddenly shrieked and crashed, a hairpin from Mrs. Powers in his calf. The wound was small, but allowed Sherlock to knock him out with a full swing.

King John put the dagger to the short man's throat. The royal emblem glistened before the man's eyes. "I am the King," King John hissed, "now tell me the truth."

Dropping his sword, the man fell to his knees. "Mercy, mi Lord," he was shaking, "my two lads don't know nothing. Some queer folk arranged this business. Said we'd get diamond and rubies and all. Didn't say nothing about killing at first."

"Who's the queer folk, and how did he reach you? " Sherlock demanded.

"I never really got a good sight of him, but he sounded like B -"

The man was cut off as a black dart struck him in the chest out of nowhere, and he dropped to the ground almost soundlessly. Sherlock gasped and rushed out, while King John checked for a pulse. A small tear on the side of the tent was evident, but the poison-shooter was gone.

On the journey back from the mountains, King John had to share a horse with Sherlock, the other two having been loaded with the victim and the survivors of the Powers family, respectively. It was quite awkward. King John was not accustomed to such arrangements and didn't know which part of Sherlock's bony torso to hold on to, but the realisation that the deadly dart might have just as easily struck the man currently bouncing in front of him made him not mind their proximity in the slightest. Sherlock smelled of sweat and dust from the combat, but it was a good smell.

"John, you could have just gotten yourself killed. That's not decent."

King John was supposed to respond with something about duty and honour, but it came out as "Oh, who cares about decent."

That made Sherlock grin, though King John couldn't see it.

Upon their return, Captain Lestrade had some further mystery to deliver.

"The four bodyguards are gone, your Majesty. Three bodies have been found in the river, and our men are still searching for the fourth."

Sherlock was astounded. "Excellent witness protection, Lestrade."

"We cannot detain them against their will since they are Buckinghamian subjects, without evidence of their involvement in the crime, as which your words don't count." Responded Captain Lestrade angrily.

King John let out a huff.

"You were quite good at being old, John, with the humpy back, croaky voice and everything. I was impressed."

King John snorted. "I'm a politician, I know how to act. You were not bad, either."

"I act frequent enough for cases." Sherlock paused for a while. "The new development overshadows some of my doubts. The culprit behind the scene did not just want a murder. He wanted a survivor to retell the horror of the story. Despite our efforts, we have failed to preserve the lead culprit or the bodyguards. Thus all cords to the criminal mastermind are cut, he who thrives in discord. And now the Queen has only my word to consider that the incident was a carefully staged conspiracy involving no actual Bartholomewean hatred, while the facts present four Buckinghamian dead bodies and three confirmed Bartholomewean murderers. The diplomatic damage is done, I am afraid."

"Forget about diplomacy for a moment, Sherlock. You saved two lives today." King John said, warmly.

"Mrs. Powers is a very strong woman." Sherlock sounded nonchalant, but King John could tell he was pleased by the observation.

"One more thing though – how could our villain be sure that the Crown Jewel will not be given up?"

Sherlock was silent for a while, and decided to say, "John, this is something you're not supposed to know, but it doesn't matter to me. The Crown Jewel of Buckingham had been long amiss. During the fruitless war of more than twenty years ago, the Old King's finance deteriorated so badly, that he was forced to sell the Crown Jewel to the notorious Lord of Baskerville, on condition of secrecy. It's a chunk of finely crafted glass that's sitting on the crown as of present."

King John chuckled. "And who'd question that? But really, Sherlock," he assumed a masterly demeanour, "you are right in saying it doesn't matter to you, because it doesn't matter to anyone. The real Jewel to a Crown is the trust of the people. All the diamonds in the world will mean nothing without the trust."

Sherlock was unimpressed. "Trust leads to weakness."

Part of King John's heart grew suddenly soft, as this casual remark was a bit more revealing than Sherlock might have intended. Somehow he had an impulse to hold Sherlock in his arms and tell him that it doesn't have to. Instead, he looked into Sherlock's eyes and said, "It's the greatest strength you'd ever know."


	5. The Adventure of the Stradivarius

"John! There's been another gruesome, exciting death - "

"Sorry, not today, Sherlock." King John laughed a little as Sherlock started to pout, "If you excuse me, I do have a Kingdom to run."

"Well, I have failed to see how a date with Baroness Jeanette would lead to anything, since her brother is only interested in the silver mines up north that you cannot spare." Sherlock retorted.

King John and Captain Lestrade traded uncertain looks. "With all due respect, Sir Holmes," Captain Lestrade begun, "I hardly think the internal affairs of Bartholomew and the personal schedule of King John would be any of your -"

"Might as well save the effort, Greg." King John sighed. It was very unrealistic to convince Sherlock that something was none of his business, especially concerning John. And it was even more unrealistic to make him pretend he didn't know something when he did, which was always.

Sherlock had remained in Criterion after the conclusion of the last case. The Strand – he announced - was quite pleasant, delightfully free from the constant prying of his brother. And all the more delightful because of the intricate mysteries that the metropolis supplied.

King John had not considered himself ivory-towered before, but going with Sherlock on his cases had opened up whole new perspectives to his own Kingdom and his own people. You see, the wonderful thing about the age before the Internet is, no-one knows what the King looks like without a crown. So he took off his crown, put on an old battered robe, and served as a quiet and meek doctor figure by the detective's side. Sherlock had a habit of ordering John around like his own house servant, making it all the more convincing. Surprisingly, John found himself to be fine with it. When he worked with Sherlock, who was a git and a brat and always utterly brilliant, his experience in trauma and suffering served to aid Sherlock's infallible judgements in unexpected ways, and he could feel his own heart and mind devoting to the cause of justice – a gratification that the crown never gave him. No. The crown and was all about compromises and choices of questionable morality on the ground of mere practicality. So, apart from a few missed appointments with Mike and some occasional concerned words from Greg, life was good. Too bad he could not always go with Sherlock as he wanted.

"I'll need to stick with her for a while, just to humour her brother, all right? The afternoon will be free. Anderson can go with you this morning if you need." King John relented, instantly feeling sorry for Anderson.

"Fine then. In the afternoon there will be a new client." Sherlock didn't sound like it was fine at all.

Chatting away with Baroness Jeanette, King John found himself more distracted than usual. Thought her interest in his person seemed quite genuine, King John readily felt they were not going anywhere. Instead, he was excessively thinking about Sherlock. Is he chasing after some murderer right now? It would be well to have someone as trustworthy as Captain Lestrade to watch over him. But he would deny the company of even Greg. In fact, he never appeared to tolerate the company of anyone other than King John himself. King John couldn't decide whether he felt more unsettled or privileged about that.

In the afternoon, King John was pleased to see a safe and sound Sherlock munching on a chocolate cookie in the drawing room. "I see, the case is solved. How did it go?"

"Ah, boring. Hardly worth a morning's time. Besides, Anderson's ill-informed remarks are more deplorable than all of The Strand's criminal acts put together. It's truly altruistic of you, John, to put him in charge of your health instead of anyone else's."

_Not that I particularly like this arrangement_, thought King John, though the quasi-compliment from Sherlock made him grin a little. "Well, let's hope your next client brings something more interesting."

"Should be here any minute." Sherlock mumbled as he drained his tea.

Soon enough, the expected client emerged. It was a flamboyantly dressed figure with a mask, curiously enough, but King John recognised him ere he spoke.

"William! What are you doing here?"

"Oh hullo, Uncle John." Said the young man awkwardly, tearing down his mask, as Sherlock watched with amusement.

As much as King John disapproved the lifestyle of his late sister, Duchess Harriet, her son had been decent enough to win his favour. Unlike his mother who chose to be intoxicated most of the time, William had been energetic and ambitious. The only backlash seemed to be rumours of his promiscuous behaviours, which did not obstruct his safe engagement with Princess Claudine last month. And rumours they were not, as his very visit to Sherlock would reveal.

"Well, Uncle John, honestly I didn't mean to trouble you at first, but since you are here with Sir Holmes, I might ask for your help all together. I need to retrieve the Strad from Miss Irene Adler."

"The Strad!" King John exclaimed, while Sherlock's eyes lit up.

The Stradivarius, as it was formally known, was a rare made of violin that had been passed down in the royal house of Bartholomew for generations uncounted, always bestowed to the first-born. John's father did not care for such things, and would have sold it to the Lord of Baskervilles had the prestigious instrument not become a national pride. William had been proud of his ownership, and so would his bride-to-be, who was a violin hobbyist. Had she found the violin not in her chamber but in the hands of the famous opera singer and courtesan, as the result of a short but passionate affair, it would surely cause a row. Or worse.

"Claudine had pestered me to lay her hands on the Strad already. I have stalled her, but not for much longer. And it's not for my own peace alone, Uncle John, you know how we rely on the supply of wood and steel from her father."

Oh bother. Romance gone wrong paired with economic mess. The only happy person in this situation would be Sherlock. "We would have something by tomorrow afternoon." He announced.

"You think you would find Miss Adler by then, Sir Holmes? She's a very clever woman, and for the sake of discretion I cannot spare you my men to - "

"No, by then I would have the violin."

If King John could imagine any female companion to Sherlock Holmes, it would be Irene Adler. As Sherlock predicted when he decided to adapt the appearance of a robbed and beaten musician, Miss Adler took pity on him and let him into the theatre where she performed. After some attempts to strike an agreeable sound from his own broken violin, Miss Adler kindly presented him the Strad, out of appreciation of the art. "This is supposed to be an outstanding instrument, though I can't play. Try it."

King John didn't know that Sherlock could play the violin. Oh, he could play. And Irene sang. The duo fit perfectly both in form and in sound. Sherlock's identity might be feigned for the case, but his indulgence in the mesmerising harmony was real. King John became embarrassedly aware of his own lack of musical talent when the sweet melody came to a finish, and the two prodigies began trading exclamations of compliments. Remembering what he was supposed to do, he tossed a smoke ball into the window.

As shouts of "Fire!" echoed up and down the street, Sherlock very politely offered to escort Miss Adler out of the building. At which point she smiled, mischievously. "That's awfully kind of you, good sir, but a smoke ball should not do me much harm. Would you mind putting your violin case down? It no longer contains the broken one, I suppose."

For the first time, King John actually saw Sherlock's jaw dropping. "I know who you are, and I have longed to hear you play, Sir Sherlock Holmes. Thank you for fulfilling my little wish." Added Adler, to Sherlock's indignation. "The fine instrument suits you. I would have gladly handed it over to you as a keepsake, were it not a matter of life or death to me. Would you invite His Majesty inside? I am flattered by his attention over such trivia."

Now King John was positively embarrassed. Discretion be darned, he shouldn't have been in this spot, a confederate in the robbery of a girl wronged by his own nephew. He clumsily climbed in through the open window like a hedgehog, invoking a laugh in Sherlock's eyes.

"'Mistress' many a man have called me," began Irene, "yet what ruling power do I have over their changing hearts? Pray tell Prince William, your Majesty, that his peace of mind may fear no disturbance, for my performance tonight bids farewell to the land of Bartholomew. Alas! Your people have both honoured and pained me, and I shall never return. Now, were your Majesty inclined to seize the prized instrument by force I shall have no resistance. However, pray be reminded that it is the threat to reveal the past rendezvous, and not the revelation itself, that serves my protection."

William's such a bastard, thought King John. "Let it be known that the renowned Stradivarius of Bartholomew was presented by the King to Miss Irene Adler, in recognition of her outstanding vocal performance. As for your security, you have my word that no Bartholomewean force shall ever be mobilised against you."

Irene curtsied. "Unlike that of his nephew, the word of King John is worthy of trust. Sherlock Holmes, Sir, you are a very lucky man." She winked.

King John wasn't sure what she meant.

King John was surprised to catch Sherlock plucking at the celebrated violin one day. Those less familiar with the instrument would not recognise it, though, for the signature of the legendary maker was scrubbed off. In its place was carved a fine script, _from Irene to Sherlock with Love._ A faint lip mark of crimson overlapped Sherlock's name.

King John felt a rush of jealousy. "It really isn't hers to give," he frowned, though in his heart he didn't mind Sherlock owning it at all.

"Well, she did say she doesn't play the violin. Besides, she doesn't play by the rules either, does she? What a remarkable lady."

"Oh, yeah, she beat you." King John couldn't help taunting.

Sherlock didn't answer, and picked up the bow. A thoughtful, soothing tune flowed, while King John hummed along enthusiastically.


	6. A Tale of Spring

Months drifted past, and King John found himself readily accustomed to Sherlock's company, or the other way around – it didn't matter. They went out often, sometimes not necessarily for cases. This afternoon, King John rode with Sherlock into a valley because Sherlock insisted that a certain _Stropharia cyanescens_, a potent illusion-inducing mushroom, can only be found there. "It's a key ingredient in a series of maniac behaviour incidents last month, John. Something fun to study."

As they took a turn, King John was dazzled by a whole hillside of nameless tiny white flowers. The multitude was quite overwhelming, like an avalanche roaring down upon him. King John was almost struck blind and could not move a single step further. He got down, sat down, and did not say anything.

Sherlock was quite unaffected, but decided to follow suit anyway. His brows furrowed for a while. "Sentiment." And then he shut his mouth.

King John shed a rueful smile. "Yes, sentiment. Go on, say what you were going to say, I won't be mad."

"It's about Queen Mary, for what I can tell."

"Spot on." King John approved, like it didn't matter a bit, and looked dreamily on. "Do you know the name of this flower?"

"_Erigeron Ovinus_, abundant in this part of the country February to May, flower and leaves edible to herds. No therapeutic use or toxicity recorded so far, it's no wonder that you don't know the name of it." Sherlock picked one flower from the carpet and stated matter-of-factly.

"I should like to name it _Erigeron Marius Mortsanius_. And tell people not to feed it to the cows." John said, in an almost merry tone.

Sherlock glanced uneasily at Toby, who was happily chomping away at the turf. "Well, you can't change the genus, although the species can be named after the first botanist to cultivate it or whatever." And he paused, as if thinking really hard about how to word things he didn't normally say. "John. The feeble mind of Human does not dominate over the mysteries of Nature. You cannot seriously blame yourself, or anyone, for what befell Queen Mary. I am sorry." Then suddenly remembering how he normally talked, he added, "though being sorry doesn't help."

John almost laughed, and gazed at Sherlock with wonder, as he remembered that he does not have an eternity with the one he loves. Sherlock shifted a little uncomfortably, secretly questioning whether what he had just said was a bit not good. Right then, John picked the flower away from Sherlock's hand, held his hand there, and kissed him. Sherlock went stiff for a second, eyes fluttered closed, and they kissed. John's lips were gentle and tentative at first, then they turned invasive, and it was tongues and teeth and interlaced fingers. John clutched at Sherlock's nape to bring their mouths even closer, and Sherlock made some little noises, fingers digging into John's shoulder blade.

When John finally pulled away, Sherlock gasped for breath. John smiled, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands. Sherlock let out a sigh of content. "John."

His eyes were glittering, and his lips were red from the kissing. God, Sherlock is beautiful.

John put both arms around Sherlock, and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "This is so wrong. I shouldn't have been doing this." He murmured.

Sherlock was indignant. "John, I'm not actually your subordinate."

"You are right, as usual." A warmness reached John's eyes. Then he proclaimed abruptly, "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock did not say anything, but held on to him tightly.

It was quiet between them on the way back to Criterion, so quiet that John suspected what had happened was really an illusion. More like maniac behaviour, actually. Nevertheless, as night fell, he stepped into Sherlock's chamber. Sherlock had changed into a loose white sleeping gown and was sitting on the bed, long legs stretching onto the stone floor, mind hovering over somewhere.

"Sherlock. Today in the valley, there must have been something, I dunno, maybe it's in the wind… maybe it's your magic mushroom." Sherlock's eyes suddenly focused on him. John felt scrutinised and all the more embarrassed by his own jibber jabber.

"Are you saying it was a mistake, then." Sherlock said darkly, jumping out of bed.

"What? No, that's not what I meant." John felt quite defeated. How does one word this? He went for direct. He grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and pulled him in really close. "I want you." He whispered.

And for a moment, John's fingers clearly felt the accelerated pulse throbbing through Sherlock's body, as his eyes turned dark with dilated pupils. Such are the symptoms of Love, betraying a fragile heart. John sighed, and without another word or thought, pulled him down to kiss his mouth.

What happened after that had mostly been compromised, because a fairytale does not contain porn. But it was a very good night.

Morning rays crept through the window, and King John woke up on not his bed. The same sun shined, and the same birds chirped, but the bed was narrower, fuller, and the pillow beside him no longer empty. King John couldn't help but beamed. Such is the feeling of having made love to one's beloved.

Sherlock stirred, half-opening his eyes lazily, as if quietly assessing the new context of waking up next to John, naked. John's blue eyes were full of warmth. He swung an arm around Sherlock's shoulder, and pressed a kiss to his muzzled curls.

"Will you stay, Sherlock? Stay with me."

Sherlock nudged closer into the contact, and rested his chin on John's shoulder.

"Yes, I will, John."

King John grinned widely, and held onto Sherlock more tightly, one hand absent-mindedly wandering down Sherlock's bare back, pausing just above his buttocks.

"Some day I will take you," he breathed into Sherlock's ear, a bit viciously, "all of you."

"Good."


	7. The Case against the Good King

Life went on pretty much the same, except that King John became very happy. When they went on cases, Sherlock still ordered him around, nicely. And King John enjoyed the privilege of watching Sherlock's face lit up when he held Sherlock's hand, which was often.

As they walked around the street down Angelo's, Sherlock squinted at the lines of humble but decent brick houses, and the merry noise of children at a playground around the corner. "That's not how I remembered this area."

"Oh, that. I asked Mike to fix the place up a bit last time, and he did a nice job."

Sherlock's lips curved only momentarily, but John didn't miss it. "John, you care so much – about everyone. It's amazing."

"Well, is that not in a King's job description? Plus, a disorderly residential area would be a breeding ground for crimes – not that it would bother you much." King John smugly responded, with some mock-severity.

A pinch of regret flashed in Sherlock's eyes. "Sorry." He muttered.

King John was taken aback. "For what? Running away with a murderer and leaving me hanging?"

"No, for the bombing."

King John almost choked on his laughter. "Oh, Good Heavens, no. Sherlock, you are the last person I expect to talk like that. No. It's not like you personally lit the cannon or anything. And it won't happen again at any rate." He said affirmatively, as he pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's cheek.

But others were not so convinced. The proximity of the Buckinghamian sleuth to the Bartholomewean King had raised a few eyebrows since the very beginning, and their frequent public appearance together had sparkled more than gossip amongst those who could recognise the King.

"Mike, what does the Old Ordinance say about the title of a male Companion to the King? Is it Royal Consort or something? I can't remember." King John asked casually.

Lord Stamford was stunned.

"I have presumed your understanding of my intention to ask for the hand of Sherlock Holmes of Buckingham in marriage. It might be slightly unconventional, but not unprecedented in history. Just don't tell him yet." King John seemed a bit giddy about the thought.

There was pain and pity in Lord Stamford's face as he witnessed a rare flashback of his King's before-Mary moments. Nobody cared if the King should have a whim of fancy for a pretty boy, but marriage would be an issue of another level. "In fact, your Majesty, the Cabinet, including myself, had already carefully considered the eventuality of bringing this matter to your attention as of late."

King John was a bit puzzled. "You sound like it's a bad thing."

"Had Sir Holmes the junior been a female member of the royal house of Buckingham, the union would have been the most sensible, securing lasting peace and prosperity for both nations. But the delicate relationship between his family and the royal house complicates the matter. Not to mention that he is," Lord Stamford hesitated, "a he."

"So?"

"Your Kingdom needs an heir, Sire."

"So I must breed for my people." King John said without humour.

Lord Stamford did not relent. "Apologies if you want any, your Majesty, I dare state that my point had long been in your consideration. As much as I would like to offer my personal congratulations to your intent," his tone softened by just a tad, "prudence is due, regrettably."

"Please, Mike. Don't lay it on the political table just yet. I need some time. I need…" King John trailed off, shook his head, and retreated from the room. It looked as if he'd suddenly turn grey.

"Whoosh, Mike, there goes our happy King John. Think he'll go talk to Sherlock?" Captain Lestrade commented, drily.

Lord Stamford's mouth twitched. "Their momentary bliss will be washed away by the tide that's churning. Happy as it had made both of them," he sighed, "I wish I had never brought Sir Holmes into Criterion."

"John, I don't care by what name other people call me in the slightest, in case you haven't figured out already."

King John sighed. "Do I ever need to tell you anything? I'm sorry," he caressed Sherlock's hair as Sherlock's head rested on his shoulder, "this is not the way I wanted to break it to you. I've wanted to do it properly."

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock murmured. "I've already said yes, and I mean to stick to it."

King John's eyes lit up as the realisation dawned on him. "Yes, you did, you idiot." And he turned his head to kiss Sherlock really hard. His heart was both light and heavy. Something blossomed, while something else died. He laid down on the couch, and cuddled Sherlock tightly. "And then what? Do I hide you in a closet in my room?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Do I go get a woman, and_ breed_?"

Sherlock swung an arm over King John possessively. "No."

"Then we will work it out. Let's see, we've got a King and a Genius on our side, haven't we?"

More than King John was inclined to believe, sometimes problems do solve themselves. Even if in the form of bigger ones.

"Richard came forward, your Majesty." Lord Stamford reported one morning, gravely.

"Richard who?"

"The one bodyguard from the Powers incident that isn't dead. He says he bears information of a most critical nature."

"It would be well to fill in on this mystery. Bring him to me."

Lord Stamford hesitated. "Pardon me, my Lord, but this fellow has announced that he would only speak in an assembly, for he fears for his life."

King John furrowed his brows. "Very well."

Soon enough, the Cabinet was summoned. Normally that did not include Sherlock, but King John asked him to attend, since it concerned his work. Though visibly nervous, Richard seemed determined from a distance. Upon approaching the throne, however, the ragged man shrieked. "It's him! God save me!" he fell on his knees and was violently shaking all over.

A murmur arose from the Bartholomewean ministers. "Order!" commanded King John. "Richard of Buckingham, rise and state you case. What information do you wish to convey, and whom are you accusing?"

To King John's shock, Richard pointed to Sherlock with a trembling finger. "It's the evil Holmes! Oh, God only knows how many terrible, terrible crimes he had done - "

"Committed." Corrected Sherlock.

No one except John found this funny in the slightest, and the air was heavy as Richard went on. "Oh, you and your know-it-all attitude. Has anyone wondered how he knows every single detail about those gruesome crimes? Because he staged them. He staged the murder of Mr. Powers and my three chaps, and was hunting me down to seal my lips forever. His family is powerful in Buckingham – oh, so powerful that even our Gracious Queen was fooled. But now that I'm in the court of Criterion I shall fear no more. I ask for justice, your Majesty, and for your protection, not only of my person, but of your own great Kingdom."

"Your logic cries out for improvement." Sherlock responded with sangfroid. "If I were to provoke unrest, I would not have spared Mr. Powers' wife and child. If I were chasing after fame, I would have worked on the Punjab Diamond instead of this case altogether. If you suggest I were here to gain information," he glanced around, "I could have collected all there is in less than a week and be gone for good. And if _I_ were hunting you down, you wouldn't be standing here."

King John palmed his face. He always had the idea that Sherlock would have made a terrific criminal mastermind should he choose to, but hearing himself spelling it out was more incriminating than anything Richard could have said.

You see, the world doesn't really run on logic. Despite Sherlock being logically correct, an illogical account from a Buckinghamian mouth was more than enough to reassure those who had had their suspicion for a while. "Seize him! Seize the murderer and spy!" Someone cried out, and was echoed throughout the assembly.

King John gestured for silence. "Justice is due in the court of Criterion as justice is. Richard of Buckingham, you speak of a great conspiracy concerning two nations. What evidence have you against Sir Sherlock Holmes, other than your own account? "

"Oh yes, sire, evidence I do have. The evil Holmes threatened us into giving poor Mr. Powers to the murderous hands, and promised great wealth if we comply. This is what he paid me with." Out of his pocket he produced a small brooch of silver, studded with moderately-sized emeralds.

_That proves nothing_, thought King John, as such a mundane piece of ornament could have been obtained from anywhere. But for a moment Sherlock actually lost his calm, and that made King John's heart sank. "That was… How? You! You evil bastard!" Sherlock shouted.

Now Richard was smug. "That's hardly a proper statement from the villain to the victimised."

The crowd was quiet. King John looked to Sherlock with pleading eyes, but Sherlock looked away. "I don't have anything to say."

With a deep huff, Captain Lestrade stepped up. "Sir Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest by the Royal Guards for suspected espionage and murder." His eyes fixed on the ground.

"There's no need for the cuff, Lestrade, I will walk with you." Said Sherlock coldly, but no colder than usual. Facing Richard, he shook his head. "Your accusation is crafted by some mind greater than yours, no doubt, but you have performed poorly."

With that he walked out in big strides, not sparing one look at John.


	8. By the Consent of Sir Holmes

"Do you believe Richard, my Lord?" Molly turned around just before exiting the King's chamber, breaking a whole evening's silence. Her voice was slightly croaked.

"No, not a word. I know him for real," King John sighed into his pillow. "Nobody can fake being such a git all the time."

The arrest of Sir "Weirdo" Holmes had been sensational. Many Bartholomewean subjects whom he had helped actually came to King John to plead his innocence, but more onlookers jeered at the odd foreigner who had once enjoyed too much favour from their King. It was scandalous enough, they said, and really up-to-no-good.

The day for a public trial was fast approaching. It was not conventional for the King to personally confront a witness, but King John does what he wants.

"You are a liar." King John stated, without pretense.

"Nay, your Majesty, flat as my acting skills might be, my hate is honest and sincere." Richard's mock-humbleness was quite appalling.

"The note about ex-military men thriving on vengeance was true, too. But from the other side. Don't you miss the war, Good King?"

"No." King John responded crisply.

"Well, I do. Isn't war delicious, with all the command, all the power, all the glory? Even Prince William would like a taste. My master wants it most of all, but fatty Holmes doesn't. Like it's gonna cut off his cake supply. Tut, tut."

"But unlike smart fatty Holmes, the judgement of the commons takes in no fact. Instead they will twist what they see to fit what they already believe. In their mind, O Good King John, the one you're infatuated with has been crucified a thousand times already. One more sentence wouldn't hurt much more, would it?"

"But stay assured, Good King, for you and I are in for the same thing. Sir 'Weirdo' Holmes will not die. Not this time. No matter how your jury cast the votes, his clever tongue will give his big brother enough ground for flying to the rescue. And you can sit back and count on your people to bite back. Isn't that going to be fun, watching the design of my master bringing two nations to their knees? Can't wait."

"Well then don't, be my guest and die in a dirty ditch right now." With that, King John took off.

The High Prison of Achenebirch was a daunting place. In terms of prison, the cell was nice enough, but Sherlock's presence in it made it both comical and heart-wrenching in King John's eyes. He looked even slimmer than usual. King John threw down his grey hood as Sherlock raised his eyes to meet him. "John."

"I'm only here as a doctor. You haven't been eating. Please."

"I know you'd come."

"Yes, of course you know, genius. I'm not bothering to ask what got to you the other day, you nutter. Use your massive intellect on the public trial, all right? The jury might not be the brightest in your eyes, but it shouldn't be that difficult to show them the truth."

"The truth, is stranger than fanfiction, so they say."

"Yeah, I'm leaving it to you to work that out. Don't you forget," he squeezed Sherlock's hand tightly, "you promised to stay."

Sherlock's eyes grew suddenly soft. His lips tightened, as if trying to word something difficult. Instead, he leaned down a little, and pressed the softest of all kisses to John's cheek.

_Sherlock doesn't usually initiate these things_, thought King John. He took it as an affirmation of good hope, and beamed brightly. As he turned around to leave, he heard Sherlock say, "Goodbye, John."

There was something King John forgot though. Sherlock did not eat because he was on a case, the Final Problem.

The day of the trial saw the court of Criterion busting with movements. Noblemen, clergymen, and representatives of the commons poured in, while the solemn jury of twelve lined up to fill in their high seats.

_Darn all that fuss_, thought King John on the throne, _just get this over with already, I've got a war to fight – not the sort with arrows, but with words. Then a wedding to plan_.

The standard procedure began. Oaths were declared, and the witness was called forward. Richard's storytelling was consistent, except with more drama.

"Now for a statement from the accused."

_Come on, Sherlock, present the facts and pour out your deductions the way you do, the way only you can._

"I confess to all charges without reservation and without appeal." Sherlock said clearly.

King John blinked.

The juryman seemed equally stunned, and was at a loss about how to proceed.

"I believe that this concludes the case? Would you kindly announce the sentence now." Sherlock shrugged.

"Sherlock!" King John fisted his desk.

"Your Majesty, I am still Sir Holmes of Buckingham if you please." Sherlock sneered. "A Bartholomewean conviction does not automatically strip me of my title and privileges. That would be done back in Buckingham, I suppose." He chuckled. "It had all been a game to me, playing with petty things and petty minds, and now I'm bored. Did you really think, O King of Bartholomew, that I must have fallen for you, because you're the Good King in a funny crown - "

"Shut up, Sherlock, shut up!" King John was yelling across the room, but he felt like he was yelling across dirty trenches that divided the world into two irreconcilable parts. Deafening cannon shots whacked through his body, and a thousand arrows pierced his heart.

"Believe me when I say the truth is stranger than fiction, your Majesty. You asked for the truth and I complied. Gentlemen of Bartholomew, you have sound ground to base your votes on now, since I am tired of playing." Sherlock glanced up to the jury.

So the votes were cast, which came out eleven against one. That one vote of "not guilty" might have been Lord Stamford or Prince William, but nobody cared.

"Sir Sherlock Holmes of Buckingham, you are sentenced to death for attempted murder, murder, abduction and espionage. Execution will be carried out in three days."

What a very eventful evening. King John found the other Holmes in his chamber.

"Sentiment, it seems," Sir Holmes the senior stated plainly, "had impaired your Majesty's usual swift judgement."

Normally King John would have retorted to accusations of the sort, but now he didn't care. "Tell me," his voice trembled, "what it is that can be done."

"We might as well strip down all formality, since the hour is pressing. Have you lost track of all recent events?"

"As much as the layman enjoys peace, old wounds lure in his heart. The Powers case, though damped by my brother's work with you, was crafted to excite those wounds. Many a layman we have in both our countries, who may view chaos as opportunities. Darker still was the mind of the overlord, whose dominion grows at the expense of blood."

"Lord Moriarty…" King John was breathless.

"As for my brother's initial shock, the silver brooch belonged to Mrs. Hudson, our housekeeper in retirement. She is safe now. Not that it would change things."

"Moriarty counted on me to start a war for my brother. And trust me, I will, should Sherlock not have chosen to do what he did. He made his decision, and I mine. Do the same!"

For a moment King John was aphasiac. His lips formed words, but no sound came out. When it did, it was little more than a breathy, shaking whimper. "Do you actually realise, what it is, that you have asked me to do?"

"I should thank you for the way you… cared for him." Mycroft said, almost apologetically. "But caring is not an advantage." he whispered, if more to himself.

King John had wished that Sherlock would let him visit for one last time, but he didn't. Instead, Sherlock asked for Molly to bring him a plate of Bartholomewean food on the last night, as was the custom of the land.

So came the day of the execution. A large crowd comprising of all sorts gathered to watch a ceremoniously dressed King John give the final command, as required by the law for all executions.

The small-built executioner's action was surprisingly swift. King John could not see anything or remember anything, other than that there was a lot of blood.


	9. A Conspiracy in Criterion

In the eyes of an observer, King John was remarkably unshaken by the high-profile event. He ate well, slept well, and handled the daily affairs of the Kingdom equally well, if not with even more vivacity. He was all over the country overseeing civil constructions or inspecting military units, and went on diplomatic missions abroad more frequently than before. The halls of Criterion and the streets of the Strand saw less and less of him, except on the way in and out. The only thing he didn't occupy himself with was dating – too little time at hand, he had apologised to the ladies.

Days slipped by. One night Molly came in to collect his plates from dinner. The only item left untouched was a chocolate cookie. She sighed. "It's been three months, my Lord."

King John looked up from a mountain of scrolls. "Sorry, what?"

Facing King John, Molly eased the quill away from his hand, and looked down at him with pitiful eyes. "You look sad, when you think no one can see you."

The nerves of steel broke down. King John buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking, but there was no tear. "Oh, Molly, I miss him. I miss him every day, every waking minute. I can't look at Toby. I can't look at Mike. I can't look at _food_. This whole city smells of him. People say he doesn't have a heart. I know he does, and I have failed it. I have failed us. What good can I do? Yet you call me King and bow before me. I am not worthy of you. I am not worthy of him. I am not worthy of the crown. I am not worthy of breathing – oh, breathing's boring now, isn't it?" His sobbing had turned violent. Molly gave his shoulder a squeeze, and hugged him lightly.

"You know in your heart why he did what he chose to do, my Lord. If in his eyes there ever is one person worthy of anything in the whole world, it's you."

"Oh, curse him, Molly, curse him."

That night was particularly difficult. It must be because of the thunders and lightening. With a quivering hand, King John reached for the flask of sedative on his night stand. Darn it, it's losing effect overtime that he has to dose up, and the whole bottle might not last very long. He poured out a large glass of the potion, when a dark, slim shadow hovered over his bed. "John. Surely you know the long-term side effects of your own medicine."

_Are the side effects here already, or did Molly slip a serving of Stropharia cyanescens into my dinner?_ Still, King John smiled at the lightening-lit silhouette. "Of course I do, Sherlock. It might hurt my brain, or it might kill me. Guess what, I don't care. There's no way for me to be any more stupid, or any more dead, than I am now. I miss you. I hate you. I hate you so much," He whispered, "but don't worry, because I hate myself so much more. Go now. Good night."

The apparition had uncharacteristically sorrowful eyes, and was silent, as King John raised his glass. Then suddenly it stretched out a hand to grab King John by the wrist, pressing his palm to its bosom. "John, I am not dead."

Upon perceiving the warmth of skin and a throbbing pulse King John gasped, glass crashing to the stone floor. The shattering noise brought Captain Lestrade rushing in, a torch in one hand and a sword in the other. There stood Sherlock Holmes of Buckingham, one hand still over King John's. The sword was dropped, as all three stared in shock.

"I should beg for your pardon, my Lord." Molly walked out from behind the drapes.

"It was I who wielded the blade when Sir Holmes fell. I have brought fine drinks from the cellar on the previous night to the appointed executioner, and stripped him of his uniform as he turned unconscious."

"Anderson examined my body. He was more sympathetic to me than I was to him." Added Sherlock, apologetically. "The rest is my brother's doing. I have retreated to the Territory of Bakerue."

Captain Lestrade took a deep breath and saluted. "Your courage surpasses that of many men, Miss Molly."

Molly blushed, and diverted her eyes to King John, who was still practically petrified. "Use well your time before the dawn, Sir Holmes."

"Thank you, Molly." Again smiled Molly as she retreated, nudging Captain Lestrade away with her.

Before Sherlock could say anything, John seized him by both arms. "How dare you do such a thing to me," his face was in Sherlock's belly, and his fingers were biting into Sherlock's forearm, "you are heartless."

Sherlock collected John in his arms the best he could, leaned his head against his, and didn't speak. John felt a drop of wetness on his cheek. It must be the rain, John told himself, and relaxed into a lasting embrace.

"My presence had done you much harm, John." He whispered.

"You are an idiot."

"John, go to sleep now. I will stay."

"No, I won't."


	10. The curious Case of Doctor John

The last public appearance of King John was at a wedding, where he witnessed the union of Captain Lestrade and Molly, formerly of the House of Mortsan. It was not a usual feat for a King; but he was Good King John, and he used the occasion to announce his gratitude to the newly-weds for their excellent service over the years. Gladstone and Toby were presented as the royal gift, a generosity that astonished many stiff-nosed nobles who were secretively burning with envy; but again, he's King John, and he does what he wants.

Soon afterwards, Prince William started taking King John's place at events ever so often, the latter citing an old wound and other health complications. So it was largely regrettable, but not entirely shocking, to the people, when the Good King decided to step down permanently.

"Promise to be a good King, William. Don't start a war while I'm on my way, you know what it does to the traffic."

"Oh, Uncle John. I will never be as good as you have been." And they embraced.

_Cheeky bastard actually sounds sincere for once_, though John, who was no longer King. At any rate, there's good old Mike to check on him.

"May peace be with you, my Lord." Lord Stamford's eyes got a bit watery. He really wasn't supposed to know anything, but as he was one of the few who did not persuade John to remain at Criterion or at least in the Strand, John suspects that he was not entirely oblivious to where he'd rather be.

"Don't worry, Mike. I'll be fine."

Captain Lestrade voiced his interest in the investigative division, so King William moved him over to work under Lord Stamford. But Lestrade, now Inspector, actually just didn't like King William enough to serve as Royal Guard any longer. Instead, he dashed about on the streets of the Strand on Gladstone, and people thought he looked dishy. At least Molly thought he looked dishy.

It turned out that John had nothing to his name once he handed over the crown, so the packing was quite easy. A couple of utilities from Doctor Anders and a few medical volumes from his own library was about all. Oh, and the Strad, thought John merrily, who proceeded to rub over Sherlock's name with his sleeve, and bundled up the instrument extra-carefully.

Thus John, formerly King of Bartholomew, mounted a donkey which he also named Gladstone, and left the Palace of Criterion for good. Oh, for much better.

Not even half way out of the Strand, John started to regret already. Of giving away Gladstone the stallion.

So it was almost dusk when John reached where he thought he'd have reached by midday. The setting sun cast a long shadow to the slim figure at a distance, who sprinted out to him with child-like earnestness. "John."

There were specks of mud on his face, and the tips of his long white fingers were soiled. His face was mostly calm, but his eyes were sparkling.

"A while ago I named my mind palace Criterion. I see that it no longer applies."

That message took John a moment to decipher. "I miss you too, Sherlock."

Considering his brief height advantage, John bent down to kiss him hard. Holding the world's only consulting detective in his arms was like holding the world, only that it felt much more real.

The little wooden house was surrounded by a considerably bigger garden, where a myriad of odd-looking plants flourished. It looked humble, messy, and full of surprises. It looked like home.

Sherlock took John by the hand, and talked him through many of the fascinating species. They stopped in front of a particularly bizarrely-shaped tree.

"_Dracaena cinnabari_ originates from the tropics, where it's worshipped for its remedial uses. The sap resembles blood in colour and smell."

John suddenly recalled a vivid image of crimson spurting out up the sky, splattering on the ground. He growled, fingers clawing Sherlock's hand. "What you did was cruel."

Sherlock leaned down to nudge his nose against the soft flesh behind John's ear. "John, I am sorry. How would you like to be compensated?"

A fire was flickering in the hearth, and the bed was small and cosy. John ran a hand through Sherlock's unkempt curly hair. It might have become his favourite thing to do.

"Now that I'm only a poor doctor, Sherlock, will you marry me?"

Sherlock chortled. "John, I thought you know that I am married to my work."

"Well, from the very beginning, I was your… client, therefore part of your work."

"Hmm. It's not decent for a consulting detective to marry his client."

John laughed. "You're right. It's also not decent for a doctor to marry his apprentice."

"Oh, who cares about decent." And Sherlock turned over on top of John for a good snog.

"I'm done caring about everybody," John' s breath was heavy, "from this day on I only care about one."

But that was obviously not true. As the first and only real doctor in the land, Doctor John soon gained the title of Good Doctor John, although his companion seemed a bit weird and unfeeling at times. But judging by the way his eyes followed Good Doctor John everywhere, he couldn't possibly be a bad person altogether. Their presence was more than welcomed in Bakerue, where no dime was given about the lecherous happenings in their bedroom.

News from neither Bartholomew nor Buckingham was very exciting. You see, the state has a way of running itself, no matter who's wearing the funny crown. Once he was put in charge of Everything, King William soon realised how much trouble a war actually would be, and diverted his attention to the trading of wines, which was much more fun. Now and then a case would pop up to bring Inspector Lestrade galloping into Bakerue, and Doctor John would find himself dragged along back to the Strand, or other wild parts of the country. After the case they would sometimes stay over a little at Greg's place, where Mrs. Lestrade would feed Sherlock a large plate of Bartholomewean food to shut him up, and still address Doctor John as "my Lord".

And so they lived, happily ever after, till the end of their days.

"Sherlock, what do you call that?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "_Bees_, John."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know that. The fancy science name, Sherlock."

"Oh. _Apis mellifera_, then."

"I think it should be called_ Apis_ _Sherlocky_." John said, with a laugh.

"What? Are you calling me names now, John?"

John looked lovingly at Sherlock's child-like undignified expression. "No. Because this little thing… it buzzes around everyday, never shuts up, and it stings. And it makes my life so sweet." John was a little embarrassed, as he realised his declaration sounded quite pedestrian.

Sherlock looked incredulous. "That's… a dumb metaphor, John."

But John could tell he liked it, and pulled him in for a kiss.

"Too bad you're not King anymore, John, you can't tell people what to call a species."

"You are quite right. I'll just start calling you 'honey' and be settled."

At hearing that, Sherlock actually blushed.

"Do you miss being King, John?"

For a moment John seemed deep in thought. "Yes, I do. I miss the part where it brought you into my life."

-The End-


End file.
